


Ordinary Citizens

by glycerineclown



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Karen meets the Liebermans, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, bed sharing, spoilers for The Punisher obviously, this was going to be just fluffy novocaine-drunk frank but it became Not That
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 06:45:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12882360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glycerineclown/pseuds/glycerineclown
Summary: Rawlins’ fist had really done a number on Frank, and he has to get some teeth pulled a few days later. Karen takes him home, after, for rest and mothering. He stays longer than he has to—long enough to figure a few things out.





	Ordinary Citizens

**Author's Note:**

> OK, **this fic comes with a warning label** , but if you made it through the series, you should be more than good. 
> 
> There's brief discussion of suicide similar to what is heard from the vets during Curt's group sessions on the show, discussion of Frank's various injuries, and some blood.
> 
> There's some heavy emotions and angst and smut, too, but that's probably what you're here for.

Karen’s eating lunch at her desk—leftovers from Friendsgiving with Foggy and Marci—when an unknown number lights up her phone.

She hasn’t heard anything from Frank since his deposition. She swallows, grins, and answers it.

“Hey, Karen,” he says. “You feelin’ charitable?”

 

Three days later, she’s sitting in a sterile waiting room with her legs crossed, flipping through a six-month-old issue of _The Economist_. Frank’s beside her, manspreading in his chair, his foot jiggling.

“You nervous?” she asks, turning the page.

Frank rubs a hand over his jaw. “I’m about to get drugged to the gills and have about five and a half teeth pulled.”

Rawlins’ fist had really done a number on him. From what she’s gathered, he’s been bleeding from the mouth on-and-off for days—from his gums _and_ the inside of his cheek.

Karen smiles and pats his arm. “We can get Jamba Juice later, how ‘bout that.”

Frank chuckles back. “Okay.”

A nurse in mint green scrubs walks out toward the front desk. “Mr. Castiglione?”

“That’s you, Pete,” Karen says.

He rolls his eyes and gets up, reaching into his pocket to hand her his keys. “See you on the other side.”

She nods, and takes them. “Try not to kill the nice doctor.”

 

They let Karen into the room when Frank’s coming to, and she sits with him until he’s awake enough to stay upright. They walk slowly out to the lobby, and one of the assistants goes over the home care instructions with Karen.

Another hangs up an office phone and asks if her boyfriend’s a boxer.

Frank’s clenching bloody gauze between the teeth he still has. His left-side molars had taken the brunt of the damage, so their absence isn’t as obvious as it could be, but he won’t be able to get implants for another several weeks—there are bone grafts that need to be done in his jaw first, and a course of antibiotics.

His body needs so much work. So much time.

He doesn’t say anything as Karen helps him out to the truck, gripping his hand and his elbow. He’s not supposed to speak.

They don’t get Jamba Juice. She makes a quick stop at the drugstore to fill his prescription, and then drives them straight back to her apartment.

 

Frank had packed a bag beforehand, with the photo of his family, the money and new IDs he’d been given, a handgun with one clip, and a few pieces of clothing that weren’t either soaked through with blood, or donated by Dinah Madani’s father. Everything he has, really.

It’s on the floor in her living room now.

Karen sits him down at the kitchen island and brings him a mixing bowl. He holds it dutifully while she pulls the gauze from his mouth with a grimace, and drops it in. Frank spits into the bowl too, and looks back up at her, bares his remaining teeth.

“Gorgeous,” she says, smiling at him.

He smirks a little around the swelling. “You gon’ take advantage of me, ma’am?”

“You know it.”

Frank spits blood again, and sets the bowl on the countertop. He leans forward, cringes as he starts to take off his hoodie. She helps him take his arms out of the sleeves and pull it over his head, careful not to snag on the stitches above his ear. Frank rolls his shoulders, and crosses his arms over his chest as Karen turns away.

She pulls a carton of salt from a cabinet by the sink, and fills a glass with tap water. “The doc said you need to swish with saline for a few days.”

He nods several times, slumped in the chair, his face blank. He perks up when her spoon clinks against the glass as she stirs the salt in.

She feels Frank’s eyes go up and down her body when she brings him the glass. “Don’t swallow it,” Karen says softly. He takes a mouthful, swishes gingerly, and when she hands him the bowl, he spits in it again.

“Th-thank you, Karen,” he says. His speech is a little garbled, but not too much more so than usual.

She puts the bowl back on the table, and reaches for him, curls her fingers into his short hair. He leans into her, almost nuzzling, and slides an arm around her waist.

The side of Karen’s mouth perks up. “You want some applesauce with cinnamon? Maybe watch a movie?”

Frank heaves a resigned sigh. “Yes, please.”

 

She puts a 90s blockbuster on the TV for him with the volume low, and pulls out her laptop, determined to get some work done. There are a few Bulletin emails she hasn’t yet replied to, and an editorial she needs to clean up.

After about ten minutes, though, in her periphery, Frank’s eyes keep coming back to her, from the other end of the couch.

“What is it, Frank?” she asks, and glances up.

“Nothing,” he says, focusing back on the TV, but after a beat, he looks down at his lap. “You’re far away.”

She had known she wouldn’t get any real work done with Frank here. With a put-upon sigh, Karen finishes a sentence, saves the document, and closes her laptop. The remote is between them on the couch cushion, and Karen grabs it, turning the volume up a little.

Frank lifts his arm to the backrest as she scoots over. Curling into his side, she props her feet up next to his on the coffee table, and tucks her hair over one shoulder.

“You happy now?” she asks, but the smile bleeds into her voice.

Frank chuckles, and turns like he’s going to kiss the top of her head, but he doesn’t. She feels him face back to the screen instead.

By the time the credits roll, it’s late, and Karen’s stomach is growling. They haven’t had dinner, and Frank’s not supposed to have hot liquids for a while. She heats up the last of the Friendsgiving leftovers for herself, and pulls a carton of vanilla ice cream from her freezer for Frank.

He eats it carefully, but very happily. He takes a shower, too, and they replace a couple of his bandages. Frank tries to say he’ll sleep on the couch, but he follows her to bed when she insists—he’s supposed to be on bed rest.

He falls asleep on his back next to her, close enough to touch.

 

Karen wakes up a few minutes before her phone alarm with a heavy limb slung around her.

She smiles when she feels Frank’s nose is tucked into her hair, too. She links her fingers between his, and he sighs, warm against the back of her neck, his breathing quiet, and even, but for the slight wheeze from his lungs.

“Maria,” he says, soft, but clear as day in her ear.

Frank’s fingers close around hers, and Karen clenches her eyes shut, breathing deeply in and out before she extricates herself from the bed, from Frank.

She holds it together until she can get to the bathroom. Her face falls into her hands when she looks into the mirror. She feels like a fucking idiot—wanting him to love her—she doesn’t even have the _right_ to be upset about this.

Karen washes her face, and brushes her totally intact teeth. When she returns to the bedroom to pick out her clothes for the day, Frank’s awake, sitting up against the headboard. She doesn’t look at him, and leaves the room again with her blouse and skirt in hand.

When he comes into the kitchen a few minutes later, favoring one leg, she’s fully dressed, standing in front of her coffee maker. There’s a single steaming mug on the counter.

He sniffs the air. “That’s just rude, brewin’ coffee when I can’t have any,” Frank says, pulling out a chair and sinking into it. “You headed to work?”

“Yeah, in a few minutes,” Karen says, and tries to smile. “It’s fine if you want to stay here.”

“Actually, I’ve got group later,” he says. “It goes ‘til seven. I could bring back dinner.”

She turns. “What?”

“My friend Curtis, he runs a support group for vets. There’s a meeting tonight.”

“Oh,” Karen says, and nods. “Wow, that sounds… really good, Frank. I’m glad to hear it.”

“Want me to bring back dinner, say thank you for your nursemaidin’ yesterday?”

“Sure,” she says, into her mug.

Frank frowns, and rests his elbows on the counter in front of him. “You okay? I was pretty out of it last night, but—”

Karen nods sharply. “Yeah, no, dinner sounds good—anything except Italian,” she says, waving one hand like she’s chasing away a fly. “I’ve just got a lot to do today.”

He doesn’t push it further. She finishes her coffee, and reminds him to take his medication on her way out the door.

 

There’s a big story she’s working on, about local water pollution and company ties to the state legislature, but she doesn’t get much done beyond the two phone interviews she had scheduled—and thank god she had already written out her questions. She’s all in her head about Frank.

Ellison makes a face at her from the doorway, and brings her more coffee.

It helps a little, but not enough, because she knows that Frank will show up with dinner tonight and be sweet with her. She feels guilty for even hoping for it, though—she wants it as much as it makes her sick to her stomach. Even with a fake identity, Frank’s extensive history meant she’d always have to worry about the target on his back, and on her own by association. It would only be a matter of time before shit landed at their feet.

And his family’s death would always loom over them, she would always be some kind of placeholder.

Like an afterthought, a consolation prize.

 

Frank calls her that night, when he’s outside with the Chinese food—he needs to be let into her building. Or, at least, a normal person would, and he’s trying to be one.

Karen comes downstairs to open the door, and he smiles at her as he walks through it.

“How was group?” she asks, and turns to press the button for the elevator.

“Good, I think,” he says. “Beat the current record for missing teeth.”

The elevator opens, and they step inside. It’s loud, with wrought iron gates, old as the building itself.

Frank watches her hit the button for her floor, and shakes his head as the gates close, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Wasn’t able to appreciate the déjà vu yesterday.”

Karen’s brow furrows.

“Being in an elevator with you,” he clarifies. “Without the, uh, the hostage crisis.”

“Oh,” Karen says, and laughs softly. “Right. Brett Mahoney saw right through that one.”

“He’s a smart guy.”

“Yeah, he is.”

The doors open on her floor, and Frank waves her out ahead of him, gesturing with the bag of food. They walk down the hall, and Karen can feel his eyes on her again, like he’s trying to figure her out.

“Smells good,” she says, nodding at the bag he’s carrying. “Royal Dragon?”

“Yeah, I think so, something like that.”

She unlocks the door to her apartment, and they go inside.

It’s so strange and off-putting to keep him at arm’s length like this—they’ve never really done small talk before. There’s never been room for it in their relationship. They’ve always been life-or-death, but the idea of saying what she’s thinking scares her more than a gun in her face.

Frank starts unpacking the food onto the kitchen counter, and Karen takes plates down from the rack above her sink. She turns to the fridge after that, and takes out two beers.

They eat on the couch. Frank’s delicate with the food, keeps it to one side of his mouth. He takes smaller bites than he would normally, and avoids the rice—there are too many pockets in his mouth for the grains to fall into.

When they’re done, and they’ve bagged the trash from dinner and washed the dishes, Frank sighs, and looks at her. “You sick of me yet? Want me to go?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head as she dries her hands with a towel.

He frowns, leaning against the counter. “Then why do you keep bullshittin’ me, Karen? You and I, we tell each other the truth. Something’s wrong.”

She tosses the towel by the sink. “It’s nothing.”

“Sure seems like something.”

Karen huffs and looks away, propping her hands on her hips. “You said Maria’s name in your sleep this morning, while you were holding me, and I just—”

“Is that why you wouldn’t look at me?”

Karen closes her eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“What?” Frank scoffs. “You think I don’t still see her die a different way every night when I go to sleep?”

“I _just said_ it was stupid—” she says, raising her voice, and when he says her name and pushes away from the counter, the words burst out of Karen like lava. “I just don’t know what the hell you want from me, okay? What am I to you?”

He takes a deep breath in, and lets it out—he’s looking at her like he’s fucking helpless. “You wanna know how I feel about you?”

“Yes,” she says, through her teeth.

“It’s not a simple answer, Karen.”

“Then give me the bottom line, alright, I—I can’t handle this, Frank, not with you—” She’s so determined not to cry, but tears are threatening to spill now, and her hand moves to cover her face, but it’s balling into a fist.

“Karen, I—look at me,” he says, and it’s soft, not like an order. “ _Karen_.”

She meets his eyes, pressing her lips together.

“You want a bottom line?” Frank says. “I went into that room again today, chock-full of guys who are just achin’ for a reason not to off themselves—and I’ve fuckin’ daydreamed about it, Karen.” He wets his lips, his eyes twitching away from her and back, his voice just a few notches above a whisper. “Everything would be easier, I wouldn’t have to feel this shit I’ve seen, this shit I’ve done, every single day.”

“Frank—” she starts, and stops when he puts a hand up, grunts out a _wait._

“But I look at you, Karen, and you, you throw your determination and your tenacity right back in my face, you make me feel like I could do something good—like, like letting you in, letting you hurt me if that’s what you’re gonna do, would be such a fucking privilege. And you don’t need me to put this on you, I'd be such a goddamn burden to you, but I just—it’s all a mess in my head, but when you’re with me, I can look into the future, y’know, for the first time since—” Frank pauses, sighs. “I just—I wanna make sure you’re good, all the time.”

Crossing her arms, Karen cocks her head to the side, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “I’m not good, Frank.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, and when she shakes her head, he steps forward, and runs his hands up her arms. “You are. And you know what kind of good I meant.”

Karen closes her eyes, but she can feel Frank’s fingers tucking some of her hair behind her ear, and running over her cheek.

“I killed James Wesley,” she says finally, in a single breath. “Last year. He kidnapped me, left a loaded gun on the table between us, and I shot him seven times in the chest.”

“Holy shit,” Frank says, eyebrows raised. “You _are_ trouble, aren’t you, Miss Page.”

“That’s not funny,” she snaps.

“Hey. _Hey_ ,” Frank says, and he ducks his head until she meets his eyes again. “It was gonna be you or him, Karen. That choice means you’re still alive, so you can drag pissed-off bastards like me back from the brink.”

She sniffs hard and laughs a little, drags a hand through her hair. “I missed you, before.”

“Me too.”

Karen melts into him then—it’s barely a hug from her end, just her face pressed beneath his jaw, her other hand gripping the back of his neck. Feeling him breathe, in and out. His arm around her is steady, heavy, keeping her.

“So, uh, correct me if I’m wrong, but,” she says carefully, into his throat. “That speech sounded an awful lot like a come-on.”

Frank snorts. “I mean, I don’t know why the hell you’d wanna be with a toothless criminal like me, but—”

She pulls back from him. “Shut up.”

Frank grins, leans in a little, brushes his busted-up nose against hers. “You gonna make me?”

Karen takes in a breath, smiles against Frank’s mouth, and kisses him. His lips are chapped, and his scruff hurts a little, but that barely registers with her before he’s groaning deep into her mouth, his hands squeezing her hips as he breaks the kiss.

“Better take things slow, though, yeah?” he whispers.

Karen nods.

 

“Lieberman asked me the other day, if I missed sex.”

They’re curled up on her bed, and his boots and jacket have come off, but she’s still in her work clothes.

Karen doesn’t answer, just raises up on one elbow to see his face. Laughter’s bubbling out of him like she’s never seen, and she smiles back, and waits for him to get the words out.

“I didn’t even—I didn’t have a chance to answer him before he took his fuckin’ pants off,” Frank says, sputtering. “Wanted me to know that he had a massive johnson.”

“What?” Karen scoffs.

“I mean, he was _drunk_ ,” Frank says, making a straight line in the air with his hand. “Fuckin’ _hammered_.”

Suddenly she has to know his answer, though, and the words tumble out before she can second-guess them. “What would you have said?”

He turns. “Huh?”

“Do you miss sex?”

Frank shrugs, cocks his head. “Never had it on deployment. Got used to goin’ without, y’know.” She waits, though, and after a moment, he sighs. “Course I do. I used to get down.”

Karen snorts, and Frank smiles, turns onto his side to face her. He tangles his fingers with hers, and presses a kiss to the back of her hand.

“You are a very beautiful woman, Miss Page. I _had_ noticed.”

“Thank you.”

His brows knit together, though, and Karen braces herself for what he’ll say next.

“But you could have—you deserve so much more than me. Somebody who can give you more normalcy than I can.”

“I think that’s my call, though, isn’t it,” she says, shaking her hair over her shoulder. “It’s been a lotta years since I had any real normalcy.” Karen folds in her elbow, and faces him on her side, adjusting the pillow. “You could’ve come over, for Thanksgiving, you know. I would’ve stayed in with you and watched Charlie Brown, instead of going to Foggy’s. I was the only one without a date.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” he says. “Didn’t wanna dump all my shit on you, though.”

She brushes a hand over his cheek, her lips quirking into a sympathetic half-smile. “Hey, I don’t have family either, Frank. It’s all about the family we make, now.”

Karen crawls out of bed after a few minutes, and takes off her work clothes, hanging them up neatly. She catches Frank watching her, his hands behind his head on the pillow, and smiles over her shoulder at him.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” she says, reaching for the clasp of her bra. “Care to join me?”

 

Frank’s torn to shreds. She had seen portions of him the night before, but not his entire body.

Standing in the bathroom, she undoes the wrapping on his arm, where that shrapnel had been sticking out. There’s a neat row of five stitches, clearly done by someone else.

The bullet holes are easier to look at. Or maybe they’re just smaller. The spot where he took an arrow to the shoulder is messy, but the exit wound looks good.

There’s a gash on Frank’s calf that’s as big as her hand, and a four-inch slice across his thigh.

“You can always change your mind,” Frank says, as he steps out of his underwear. “Frankenstein’s monster over here.”

She shakes her head at him, but winces at his freshest injuries all the same.

“See, this is why I didn’t ask if you wanted to fill that Vicodin prescription,” Karen says. “That orthodontist was ready to give you the world, but I figured, hey, what’s five teeth?”

“I got addicted to that shit after my first tour,” he says. “Would probably be the least of my problems to do that again, though, right?”

She chuckles in response, and looks away to turn on the shower. Frank’s eyes are on her again as she waits for the water to steam up, and he steps closer, runs the back of a finger down her ribcage.

Karen turns to present her cheek for a kiss. He takes the hint, wordless, and then slides his arms around her waist, presses his forehead into her temple.

Leaning into him, Karen hums. She doesn’t know where to put her hands, though.

“What hurts?” she asks softly, her fingers hovering over his skin. “Where shouldn’t I touch you?”

Frank shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Frank indicates the cut on his thigh. “This one, probably. I do anything you don’t like, just punch it, I’ll be on the ground.”

She smirks at him, her eyes lingering on his cock, and tests the temperature before stepping into the shower. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Karen pulls him in after her by the hand, and he tugs the curtain closed behind them.

He’s looking at her like she’s not real, like she’s glowing.

She turns away to wash her face, and he acts interested in the bar soap, but Frank’s crowding her almost immediately, his torso brushing up against her back. Karen presses her ass back into him, and he responds in kind.

“Where can’t I touch _you_?” he asks in her ear, sliding his sudsy hands around to her stomach.

Karen laughs. “Nowhere comes to mind.”

He’s holding her tits a second later, and kissing the back of her neck.

When she turns around and guides him under the spray, he’s smiling wide, and reaching for her shampoo.

She takes his dick in hand soon enough, just enough to get him worked up, so that by the time they’re drying themselves off, Frank’s focused on touching as much of her skin as possible, and taking her ass back to bed.

Karen forgoes a more thorough toweling of her hair and gives in, lets him chase her into her bedroom, her heart racing. She climbs onto her bed, scoots up to rest her head on the pillows, and soon enough he’s crawling between her knees, leaning down on his elbows to kiss her neck and work his way down to her chest. Frank catches a nipple between his lips; she digs her fingers into his hair and gasps.

He looks up at her and grins, before sliding a hand between her thighs. He lets his thumb circle close to her clit, and she brings a hand down to adjust him when Frank makes eye contact with her.

“Right here?” he asks, even though he knows the answer just from watching her face—his crooked smile says so.

Frank’s trigger finger massages on down to her entrance after that, and slides inside her, slow. There’s barely any friction—she’s so slick for him already.

Karen hums, arching into him, as his thumb begins circling again. “Goddamn, Frank,” she breathes, and he looks up.

“You like that?”

Karen nods vigorously.

“You want some more?”

“Mm-hmm,” she says, dragging her fingers through his crew cut.

With the addition of the second though, she can feel him scratch her for a good two inches. “Stop,” Karen gasps, hissing through clenched teeth, and he pulls out. “It’s your nails.”

With all Frank has done with his hands recently, she’s a little surprised that she didn’t check first. They’re clean, but his middle fingernail has a jagged edge.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry, here, lemme,” Frank says, trailing off and shifting onto his stomach, before just moving off the bed entirely and dragging her by her hips to the edge. Frank gets to his knees before her, and Karen groans in anticipation. His hands tuck one of her thighs over his shoulder, and then move down to part the lips of her pussy.

The scruff over his cheeks and chin is rough against her skin, but his tongue is warm and soft, curls around her clit like it’s a delicacy, eyes closed like he’s savoring it. Like there are only so many bites he’s allowed to take.

His thumb returns after a minute, and he points his tongue to slide inside her, laps at where she’s the wettest.

“You sure know how to treat a lady,” she says, breathless, rocking her hips against his face.

Frank looks up at her, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “You should never accept anything less, Karen.”

She smirks. “Sweet-talker.”

 

They fall asleep spooning, this time, and smelling like sex. He’s a furnace at her back, but it’s winter, so she just strips off her sleep pants and lets him hold onto her, two of her fingers threaded through his.

It’s Saturday when she wakes up, and she doesn’t have an alarm. Frank slides a hand under the hem of her t-shirt, and grumbles a little as he moves in to kiss her. Karen leans into his mouth, morning breath be damned, and gives back as good as she gets.

She curls into his chest after that, uses his arm as a pillow, and dozes for a few more minutes. The fingers on his other hand trace slow circles over her scalp until he gets up to use the bathroom.

Karen comes in to brush her teeth while Frank is taking a shower, and she clears a space in the fogged-up mirror with her hand. Typically she loves being alone in her apartment, but this is nice. Comforting.

He gets out while she’s combing her hair, and comes up behind her in the mirror.

“You want me to shave?” he asks, running a hand over his jawline. “Maria always preferred it smooth.”

Karen looks over her shoulder at him, and then down. “I’m a little more concerned about what’s happening downstairs, to tell you the truth.”

“Oh,” Frank says, following her gaze, and cracks up. “Yeah, that’s a fuckin’ bush, all right.”

“I did like the beard though, actually. It looked soft. A new you.”

“It was a pretty damn good disguise.” He smiles, and wraps his hands around her waist, pressing a loud kiss to her neck. “Didn’t even have to change my outfit.”

Karen reaches up and scrubs a hand over the top of his head. “You gonna grow that man bun back out so I have something to hold onto?”

“I can if you want,” he says, and kisses her temple.

 

Frank puts on his hat, and they grab breakfast from a bodega that’s down the street from her apartment.

They walk with their food down to a parklet, and sit on a wooden bench to dog-watch. It’s getting chilly enough that a lot of the dogs are wearing little sweaters, and Frank’s face is having a conflicted reaction to them.

Karen’s laughing at him before long. He throws his balled-up napkin at her.

“I’m meeting up with Lieberman tomorrow,” Frank says, as they’re tossing their trash. “He’d be thrilled to meet you, if you wanted to come with.”

Karen agrees. Beyond Schoonover, who had turned out bad, and a few seconds of contact with Billy Russo, who wasn’t much better, she’s never known Frank’s people. She’s heard about Curtis in passing a few times now, and committed a B-and-E on Frank’s house, but it’s not the same as watching him interact with someone else.

They take Frank’s truck, and when he turns onto a quiet residential street full of single-family homes, she looks over at him. “Where are we going?”

“I said I’d meet him at his house. They invited me to Thanksgiving too, and I skipped it. Feel like I gotta say hello to everybody.”

Karen nods, her eyes following a jogger on the sidewalk before darting back to Frank. “So he has the two kids, right?”

“Zach and Leo.”

“Leo? I thought you said he had a daughter.”

“Yeah, Leo’s the girl,” Frank says, as he pauses at a four-way stop. “Must be short for something.”

“And his wife?”

“Sarah. She’s liable to drink you under the table in the middle of the afternoon, so. Watch the rosé.”

Frank pulls over not long after that, and they get out. He takes her hand as she rounds the front of the truck.

“This is a nice neighborhood,” Karen says, looking down the block. There aren’t many leaves left on the trees this late in the season. “Feels like Vermont, a little.”

They’re barely halfway up the driveway when the front door opens, and David Lieberman steps out onto the porch. His daughter is hanging back, in the doorway.

“Hey, David,” Frank says.

David waves, and comes down the stairs to meet them, eyes wide open, eyebrows raised. “Is that Karen Page?”

“It is indeed,” Frank says, and Karen drops his hand to shake David’s.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Karen says with a smile.

“Are you kidding?” he says quickly. “Jesus. This is great. Please, come in.”

They start up the stairs, and Leo’s holding the door open, wearing a hesitant smile. “Hi, Frank.”

Frank grins at her as they head inside. “Hey, sweetheart. How you doin’?”

“Pretty good,” she says with a shrug.

Sarah appears as Leo’s closing the front door behind them. She’s followed by her son, and after Frank greets them, he slides an arm around Karen, who sticks her hand out to introduce herself. Sarah’s surprised, and a little over-warm to compensate, but Zach gives a rather limp handshake, and runs off to sit on the couch. Leo’s measuring Karen with her eyes, like she’s wary of strangers, but hopeful.

David takes Karen’s coat, and she can tell already that he’ll have a lot of questions. When she thanks him and looks back, Frank’s following Sarah and Leo into the kitchen.

“So, is she that _maybe_ you told me about?” Sarah asks, in a hushed voice.

Karen can’t be sure, but Frank’s one-word answer sure sounds like, “Maybe.”

 

They fuck on her couch that night, with the lamps on. Karen gets him hard with her mouth—he’s trimmed, and she remarks on it while she’s down there, and his hands are so careful, too careful for her taste. He’s holding her hair out of her face, and guiding her very gently, and finally she pulls off with a nasty slurp.

“C’mon, Frank,” she says, licking her lips. “I know you can do better than that. I’m not gonna break.”

He stares down at her, winds his fingers into her hair, and makes a fist.

Karen smiles in approval and gets back to work, makes Frank sing her praises loud enough for the neighbors to hear, lets him fuck her mouth, but doesn’t let him come.

She rides him after that, sinks down onto his cock, holds his face to her chest as he sucks on her tits and scrapes his teeth over her skin.

When he kisses her, it’s with fire, and fingerprints on her hips, and a reverence that she’s never felt before.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he growls into her mouth, jerking his hips up to meet hers. “Fuck, Karen.”

She just smiles at him and bares down, grinds on him until he falls apart.

 

Billy Russo slips into Frank’s dreams, kills Karen a few times.

He wakes one morning when she’s already out of bed, and he comes slamming into the bathroom, armed and naked, scares the hell out of her.

Once he’s breathing normally again, and they’re curled up on the couch, he tells her the whole story, including a bunch of the classified stuff from Kandahar that she’d never been privy to. The dealings with Schoonover the year before start feeling a lot less like lead in her stomach after that.

She feels more like she could have killed him herself.

She’s nearly two hours late for work that day.

David’s got a few eyes on Russo, to alert them of any changes. He hasn’t woken up yet.

 

In the second week of December, Karen helps Frank take out his stitches. She knows he can do it himself, and he says as much, but she likes taking care of him, and she knows that secretly, he likes being taken care of, too.

He’s drinking hot coffee again, and is very happy about it.

She also knows that he’s getting anxious again, that everything’s way too good to be true, and she knows that feeling well.

He’s frowning at his bare feet, up on her coffee table. “Homeland, y’know, when I got discharged, they gave me money, to start over someplace else. David did, too.”

Karen nods. “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to lie, and just live like that forever—the past year was—” Frank winces, and sighs. “I don’t know, Karen. I like New York, most of the time. And you’re here. Curt’s here, David, and his family’s here.”

“Maybe you just need to get out of town for a while, until things blow over a little more. Y’know, see the world. Come back when the beard’s grown out again.”

He nods, considering. “Maybe.”

“I mean, I could use a break,” Karen says with a shrug. “Ellison wants me to take some time off, anyway.”

He looks up, raises his eyebrows. “Yeah? You wanna do that?”

“Yeah. One condition, though, Frank.” Karen smiles, soft, and slides her hand over his thigh. “No fighting, no heroics. It’ll be an actual vacation. You have to rest, let your body heal, all right? You don’t have anything to prove.”

Frank closes his eyes, and leans into her. “Okay.”

 

Pete Castiglione opens a bank account, buys a used midsize SUV that doesn’t have “battle van” written all over it, and gets an actual cell phone. He gets some new boots, too, more inconspicuous, but not completely useless.

He and Karen skip town not long after that. The new ID works like a charm at bars and motels. Frank still flips a police scanner on and off out of habit, but the only time they really manage to break the law is speeding on empty country roads.

She reads Curtis’ next book selection, Hermann Hesse’s _Siddhartha_ , aloud in the car as they pass through Ohio and part of Indiana. Karen remembers reading it in high school, but she appreciates it more now, as an adult, with several extremes already lived.

They spend Christmas outside Chicago, holed up in an Airbnb through the bitter cold new year. Everywhere they go has decorations up, and they both slip on ice more than once.

They drink a lot of coffee and keep each other warm under blankets, and two or three nights a week, Frank wakes up violently from his dreams. Sometimes he needs to be held, and sometimes he really, really doesn’t, and sometimes he just wants her to talk to him about something, anything, else. She’s getting better at knowing which he needs without Frank telling her.

Everything’s different, new, but she feels safe, because he’s beside her.

She understands, now, emotionally, how people can get married two or three months in, but she still thinks they’re fucking idiots.

 

The day before Frank and Karen leave Chicago, they stop to watch a busker who’s singing an appropriate Robert Johnson song. It’s probably cliché and overplayed to the locals’ ears, but Frank tosses the guy some change.

He veers off the sidewalk and into a music store a few minutes later.

There’s a gorgeous Gibson Hummingbird inside, and Frank takes it off its stand and finds a piano bench to sit on. Karen can see the hearts in his eyes as he makes a few chords, and doesn’t mention the five-thousand-dollar price tag.

He puts it back without saying anything, and they walk out without it.

Frank returns in the morning before they leave for Jackson Hole, and forks over the cash.

 

In the first week of February, Frank and Karen arrive back in New York, just a few days before Frank is scheduled to get more surgery on his jaw.

She checks in at the Bulletin, feeling refreshed and raring for a story, and he goes to group. He’s been helping Curt pay for the meeting space and coffee service, now that Russo’s out of their ever-shrinking circle.

Foggy’s excited to see her after her six weeks away. She still hasn’t told him about Frank, though. Karen decides to just bring him with her to meet Foggy for drinks. Rip that band-aid off.

They walk into Josie’s a few minutes late, and Foggy’s by himself at the bar, in a suit too nice for the place. He’s chatting up Josie, who looks fond. When she nods in Karen’s direction, Foggy looks over, and his face breaks into a bright grin. He stands from his barstool, and only then does he notice the man on Karen’s right.

She steps forward and hugs him before Foggy can say anything, and then she turns to Frank. “Foggy, I’d like you to meet Pete Castiglione.”

Foggy’s flabbergasted, but he plays along, shakes Frank’s hand.

“You clean up nice, counselor,” Frank says, smirking.

Foggy laughs right in his face, and then orders a round of shots.

They stay and drink for most of three hours. Frank’s better than either of them at pool, and Karen’s not surprised by that at all.

 

Frank’s beard is full again by the time they can put in the new teeth. Karen’s gotten him to tame it a little more than he had when he was breaking rocks for a living.

It looks really good, especially with his hair long enough to curl a little over his forehead.

“You excited?” Karen asks, as she pulls into the parking lot of the oral surgeon’s office. “Huh? New chompers?”

“They’re gonna drill holes in my jaw,” he says, dry, but a smile fights through. Neither of them move to get out of the car after she turns it off.

“What time is it?” he asks, looking out the window. “We’re early, aren’t we.”

“It’s about 10:30,” Karen says.

Frank’s head jerks to look at her, wide-eyed.

“You okay?” she asks, soft, and slides her hand into his.

Frank nods, and sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

He opens the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope this felt true to The Punisher and to you. I'm still so shocked by how much general hopefulness this season has inspired after the vicious emotional hellscape of Daredevil Season 2, and I just want to lay in it for the foreseeable future.
> 
> Thanks a bunch to [ejunkiet](http://ejunkiet.tumblr.com/), who looked over this for me.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://glycerineclown.tumblr.com/), as always. This fic is rebloggable [here](http://glycerineclown.tumblr.com/post/168096952498/title-ordinary-citizens-pairing-frank-castlekaren), if you're so inclined!


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